


this is how it really ends.

by ozonecologne



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Gen, Happy Ending, M/M, Season/Series 15, Series Finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:15:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27641962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ozonecologne/pseuds/ozonecologne
Summary: Jack only gets vague inclinations, a faint pull somewhere over the edge of the horizon. It’s not like they have anything better to do, so they chase it. They follow Jack’s intuition, which happens to coincide with the beating of Dean’s heart.Cas, you son of a bitch,Dean thinks, unable to stop himself.If that’s you out there, I swear to God, I’m not gonna know whether to kill you or kiss you.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester
Comments: 144
Kudos: 783





	this is how it really ends.

**Author's Note:**

> I think that after that disaster of a finale, y’all deserve something so much better. So here we go, and here I am.
> 
> Begins at 15.19, with some edits along the way, and rides all the way to a better end. Heavily inspired by my good friend Julie (@xylodemon).
> 
> Thank you all for everything. I love you.

His heart leaps at the suggestion, and he’s so embarrassed by its resilience that he stays purposefully silent as he reaches for the Impala’s keys.

Jack feels a presence. There’s something out there on this empty planet that isn’t him or Dean or Sam. There’s something else, something waiting, and maybe it’s waiting for them.

And Dean, well. Dean dares to hope.

Jack only gets vague inclinations, a faint pull somewhere over the edge of the horizon. It’s not like they have anything better to do, so they chase it. They follow Jack’s intuition, which happens to coincide with the beating of Dean’s heart.

 _Cas, you son of a bitch,_ Dean thinks, unable to stop himself. _If that’s you out there, I swear to God, I’m not gonna know whether to kill you or kiss you._

He bites down – hard – on the inside of his cheek and wrings the steering wheel under his knuckles. Then he steps down on the accelerator, hoping to outrun that lethal wish of his.

They take frequent stops so Jack can get oriented. The wind shifts and the scent changes, the world turns and the field realigns itself. Jack seems a little more confident with his hunches every day, but they do make stops. To eat, to refuel, to check for signs of life. They don’t find anything. Dean cracks too many Zombieland jokes. At the next rest stop, a broken down little thing on a cracked square of concrete, Sam throws a Twinkie at his chest with a shit-eating grin on his face, and they can almost pretend things are a little bit normal. 

While the Impala drinks her fill, Jack sits on the edge of a stone wall separating the rest stop from the empty freeway. Dean stares at the boy’s back for a bit as he waits for the numbers on the gauge to stop ticking, and notices Sam doing the exact same thing beside him.

He nods over his shoulder. “Where do you think he’s taking us?” Dean asks.

Sam purses his lips and shrugs. He leans against the passenger side door and answers, “I don’t think he knows.”

Dean hums. He tears open the Twinkie wrapper as the final mark that this conversation has ended. He turns the cake around in his hands for a moment, pinched between two callused fingers, and makes a face at it. He takes a large bite out of the top and immediately wishes he hadn’t.

“Ugh,” he groans, spitting onto the gravel. “That shit is sonasty.”

Sam scoffs once, smirking a little, but doesn’t engage any further. Dean finally gives up and tosses the rest of the Twinkie onto the ground, like a discarded cigarette. Sam looks like he wants to protest, but he lets it go. 

From behind Jack’s turned back, Dean watches the edge of the nearby woods, tree limbs swaying in the light breeze. He watches strange and lovely patterns swirl into the leaves, waving and ebbing as if under the sway of ocean waves. There’s no birdsong anymore, but he takes a moment to be thankful that Chuck didn’t take _everything_ living off the planet.

“You know,” he says, leaning against Baby’s trunk. “It’s kind of peaceful like this.”

Sam turns to him, eyebrows raised incredulously.

Dean shakes his head. “No, I mean, I know. That’s not what I meant. I’m just saying…”

He can see Jack’s shoulders rise, and then fall in a long breath. Dean copies the gesture for himself.

“I don’t stop to look around enough, I guess,” he says. “I mean, I spend so much time thinking about saving the world, but I never really enjoy it, you know? And the world’s – the world’s kind of pretty. You really notice it when there’s nothing else to look at.”

Sam’s still looking at him like he’s crazy, and Dean feels a familiar heat climbing up the back of his neck. He rubs at the skin and pushes off the car, reaching to fiddle with the gas pump. The Impala stopped filling up a while ago, and he feels Sam’s eyes on him the whole time as he sets everything back in its place.

“We end up taking a lot for granted, I think,” Sam says at last. His tone is soft and cautious. Reflective. Sad.

Dean freezes in place by the gas tank. He leans against the roof of the Impala on his elbow, letting a big sigh out as he slumps all of his bodyweight against the hot metal. He stares down at the toes of his boots when he agrees, “You can say that again.”

Sam smiles, wryly. “I never even got to tell her goodbye.”

Dean looks up. Sam’s already staring at him, and his eyes look suspiciously wet. Dean feels a suspicious lump welling up in his throat.

“I never said it either,” Dean tells him.

Sam presses his lips together and nods. He pushes off the car and pulls his hands out of his pockets, wiping self-consciously at his eyes. Dean rolls his own eyes skyward, just for a moment to quell the flow, before looking away from his brother. He finds Jack walking back to the car, with seed pods stuck to his jeans.

“It’s east,” he determines.

Sam clears his throat. Dean asks, “You sure?”

Jack nods. “Yep. I’m sure.”

Dean nods, and Jack takes that as his cue to get into the back seat. Sam pulls open his own door, but he doesn’t meet Dean’s eyes again.

He approaches the driver’s side, but before Dean gets in, he looks back over the cracked lot out at the trees again. He frowns.

Curiously, the patch of grass that Jack had been sitting over has faded to a dull brown. Everything around that patch is verdant and light, except there. Dean frowns harder, and decides to watch Jack a bit closer from now on.

Jack leads them to a church, and Dean’s heart leaps into his throat when he pulls into the parking lot. It’s a holy place. Of course it is. So maybe…

But it’s only Michael inside. The last archangel left, and he all but prostrates himself before the three of them. “Tell me what you need me to do.” Following new orders, now.

Sam smiles, tight-lipped. “First thing you could do is get in the car. We need your help with something.”

Michael nods. “Anything you need.”

“It’s just you?” Dean blurts.

Michael turns, looks at him quizzically. “I’m sorry?”

Dean licks his lips. “Is it just you in here,” Dean enunciates, a little more clearly. “Are you all that’s left? There’s nothing else?”

Michael shakes his head, shoulders dropping. “As far as I know, yes. Heaven’s in shambles, and Hell, well…”

Dean turns. “Forget it. Let’s go.” He walks down the aisle and heads for the door, keys already in hand. “We’ve got a lot of work to do.”

They fill Michael in pretty fast about Chuck’s book, and though he does lower his eyes with shame and doubt at the thought of bringing about his father’s demise, he eventually agrees to help. To everyone’s disappointment, he can’t get the book open, even though he takes more than a couple holy cracks at it. Jack watches him do this with the utmost concentration, to the point that sweat starts to break out on his brow.

Dean finds the archangel after a long day slumped at the kitchen table, panting. He’s drained after another explosive bout of righteous wrath, but he only shakes his head when Dean approaches him.

“I have tried every spell in every language that I know,” Michael says, weakly and staring at the wood grain. “I have shot more firepower at that book than I’ve ever used at one time before.” A thought must occur to him then, because suddenly his eyes go cold and distant. “Maybe I’m fading, too. Maybe I’m not strong enough anymore.”

Dean shakes his head and takes the seat opposite Michael at the table. “I didn’t really think you’d be able to open it,” he admits. “It’s Death’s book, and that’s a bit above your pay grade, Mike.”

Michael sighs. “Still, I’d hoped. I’m sorry.”

Dean nods, taps his finger on the table, and stops. They sit there in silence together for a moment, counting the seconds. You could practically hear the gears turning. Michael finally breaks the silence with a small laugh.

Dean frowns at him. “What?” he asks.

Michael shrugs. “It’s ironic, you know?” He leans back in his seat, regarding Dean smoothly. “That you and I have teamed up on this side of things,” he says.

Dean smirks wryly. “Guess you could say it was just meant to be.” His heart pangs as he says it.

“No,” Michael corrects. “I was meant to fight my brother for dominion over the Earth, because my father said so.”

He holds his head up a little higher. “But I have chosen differently,” he says. “I have chosen to return this planet to those it belongs to, and to stop my father from interfering anymore. You are not my sword, Dean Winchester, and you were never meant to be. I think, perhaps, that I was meant to be yours.”

Dean gets up from the table, and Michael frowns after him. Dean doesn’t say a word as he opens the refrigerator, and pulls out two bottles of El Sol.

He slowly approaches the kitchen table again to stand at Michael’s side, and holds one of the beers out to him.

With a small smile, Michael takes it. The glass is cool in his hand, in this body of Adam Milligan’s that belongs only to him now. They twist off their caps in sync.

Dean holds his bottle out to Michael. “Here’s to choice.”

Michael smiles. He touches his bottle to Dean’s with a soft ‘clink.’ They drink, brothers in arms. 

It feels like a turning tide.

“You notice anything weird about Jack lately?” Dean asks the next day. Michael’s in the dungeon again trying to split open Chuck’s book. The boy in question insisted on being a part of the process again, curiously.

Sam frowns. “I’ve noticed something weird about your drinking lately,” he answers, prissily. 

Dean rolls his eyes. He knocks over the glass bottle closest to him on the library table and huffs. “I’m fine. Jack’s not.”

Sam scoffs, but thankfully drops the issue. “I know what you mean. He’s been a little… twitchy?”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees. “And his power’s coming back. Or, at least, some kind of power.”

Sam hums, mulling this over. “When we were at that gas station on the road to Michael. Did you notice the – ”

“Grass,” Dean finishes. “And then some big planters outside that diner,” he adds. “Yeah, I saw ‘em.”

Sam’s nodding before Dean can even finish his sentence. “It’s like he’s sucking things dry,” Sam muses aloud, and both brothers pause to look at each other.

“Dude,” Dean grumbles. “I’m still half drunk and even I get what’s going on here.”

Sam’s face starts to light up in that geeky way of his. “Jack’s bomb must have been reversed after he went off. He must be taking _in_ energy now instead of expelling it outward.”

Dean blinks, but his eyes still feel dry. He rubs at them with the backs of his hands and grunts. “Right. So what?”

The thought occurs to the brothers at the same time. Dean takes his hands away from his eyes and looks at Sam. Sam stares right back.

“I wonder if he can suck _anything_ dry,” Sam says.

“Yeah,” Dean muses. “Like a God.”

Sam’s slight smile widens to a grin, something maniacal lurking on the edge of it. “We’d have to power Jack up a bit first to give him a fighting chance.”

“We wouldn’t even need the book,” Dean adds. “Screw the book. We use the one thing he fears as bait.”

“Jack saps his powers,” Sam finishes. “And boom.”

“Boom,” Dean agrees.

Sam frowns. “What about Michael? Would he be willing to help, or is he going to crack under pressure?”

It’s a risk, trusting Michael. Plans always work best with fewer people involved, and especially fewer people playing for the other team. But Dean thinks back to their recent conversation in the kitchen, the pride with which Michael had held himself, and he chooses this time to trust the integrity of someone else’s will.

“He’ll help us,” Dean declares.

Sam furrows his eyebrows. “Really? You’re sure.”

Dean shakes his head. “Nope. But I’m going to try having a little faith for once.”

Sam sighs. He leans back in his chair and slowly begins to nod.

“Ok. Let’s get him up to speed.”

In another version of this story, Michael betrays the Winchesters and becomes just a pawn in their plan because of it. He serves his father right until end, ever faithful, the loyal son, and he pays the ultimate price. But in this version of things, Michael does the one thing he’s never been known to do:

He loses. Gracefully.

He relinquishes his power to Jack willingly, and watches on from a distance as Chuck’s power is drained too. And then, at the end of all things, with Chuck groveling in the dirt, he reenters the story one last time.

“I’ll look after him,” he promises. Jack and the Winchesters turn to look at him, but Michael is only looking at Chuck. “He’s a rotten jackass, but he’s my father. And now that we’re both mortal… all we have is each other.”

Chuck looks at him like he’s seeing Michael for the first time, red-faced and gasping for air. The Winchesters turn over their shoulders to confer with the only person who really has the final say anymore.

Jack just smiles. “I think that’s a nice idea,” he says.

Michael nods at him with a smile of his own. “Good luck out there." He means it.

Sam, Dean, and Jack pile into the Impala, and Chuck is too shell-shocked to do or say anything but stare after them. It’s only when the dust finally settles and even the silhouette of the car is long gone that he feels a hand on his shoulder: Chuck, formerly God of the Universe, is alone at last at the end of his reign, powerless, with his son at his side.

With his new powers, Jack fixes it all. He fills the world with people again, he puts things back into balance as they should be. The boy who’s always wanted to help, who’s always searched for a purpose that could mean healing instead of hurting, saving people, has now stepped up to his final call in the service of the world.

In this way, he is and always will be a Winchester.

“So all is right with the world,” Sam says, still somewhat incredulously. “It’s really all fixed. I mean – wait, does this mean…”

Jack smiles. “They’re waiting for you. Everyone. Bobby, Charlie, Donna… everyone.”

Sam’s mouth moves, but no sound comes out of it for a minute. “And?”

Jack’s smile widens. “Everyone.”

Sam laughs, a burst of joy and relief. Without thinking, he engulfs Jack in a huge hug, tight enough to lift his feet off the ground. Jack hugs back, giggling.

“Oh, God,” Sam sputters before setting him down again. “I mean – _shit_ , uh – ”

Dean cuts him his brother’s nervous rambling with a laugh, a deep one in his belly that just spirals out louder and louder, until he can’t actually make himself stop. 

“You’re God,” he wheezes at last. “The kid is freakin’ God.”

Jack shakes his head. “I’m me,” he corrects. He seems to realize as he says it that – 

“But you’re not, are you,” Sam says, running a hand through his hair. “Not really.”

Jack’s smile turns sad, and Dean frowns in response. “Well, don’t expect us to treat you any different just because you’re God or whatever,” Dean huffs. “When we get home, you still do dishes, you still pick your dirty socks up off the – ”

“I’m not coming home,” Jack interrupts. Dean gapes at him, but Jack’s smile returns. “In a way, I’m already there,” he says.

“Where?”

Jack shrugs. “Everywhere.”

Sam shakes his head. “But if we want to see you – ”

“I’m around,” Jack assures him. “I’ll be in every drop of falling rain. Every speck of dust that the wind blows. And in the sand, the rocks, and the sea.”

But Dean’s still not convinced. “It’s a hell of a time to bail,” he mutters. Sam shoots him a look of reproach, but Dean doubles down. “No, you know – there are a lot of people counting on you,” he says. “People with questions. And they need answers.”

Jack remains firm. “And those answers will be in each of them,” he assures. He speaks with the confidence not of the boy he was, but as the leader he’s become. The change, to Dean, is extreme. 

“Maybe not today,” Jack clarifies, “but some day.”

Sam purses his lips as Dean turns his eyes to the ground. He asks, “What will you do next?”

Jack takes a long breath. “I was tasked once to repair Heaven. It’s still in dire need of assistance, and now I can finally do something about it.” He grins. “I can make angels. I can teach them about what I’ve learned here on Earth, make them part of a real family, and we can finally start over.”

Dean holds in a scoff. “You’re sure? How do you know things will be different with you?”

There’s a beat of pause where Jack thinks – really thinks – about Dean’s question. When he speaks, it’s softly. 

“I learned from you, and my mother, and Castiel,” he says, “That when people have to be their best, they can be. And that’s what I believe in.”

He blinks, and then he nods once, firmly. “I believe in love.”

And, well. What can you say to that?

They have things to attend to. Homes to rebuild, on every end of a celestial divide. “I’m only this far away,” Jack says, holding a hand to his heart.

Dean does scoff then, rolling his eyes so that Jack won’t see they’re misty. “Come here,” he chokes out instead, grabbing him in for a hug. Jack latches on tight, and feels Sam wrap his big arms around the two of them, the three men huddled in the middle of the street together while the world picks up around them.

“I’m proud of you,” Dean mutters into Jack’s hair.

“I’m proud of _us_ ,” Jack replies, quietly, into the collar of Dean’s jacket.

They let each other go, all a little worse for wear, and Jack does what every hunter is taught to do when something ends. 

He says goodbye.

It’s chaos back at the bunker. Cheers erupt when Sam and Dean walk through the door – their front door, their home that they’ve made – now that it is full of people they know, people they love. It is a hero’s welcome.

Sam bolts right for one face in the crowd. He sweeps her up into his arms and kisses Eileen bruising hard, right there in the middle of the map room with his chosen family all around him hollering and whistling and egging him on. 

He pulls up to take a breath and rests his forehead against hers. She laughs at him through a thin film of tears.

“I am never losing you again,” Sam promises. It’s a good thing that Eileen can read lips, because no one could have heard such a softly-spoken vow.

Escaping a barrage of hugs and slaps, Dean trails after his brother into the thick of the room. He grabs Bobby in a hug, he kisses Charlie on the head, but he only does so in passing, pushing through to the threshold of the library with shoulders and elbows.

He frantically searches the faces he passes, scanning each of them. _Please, please, please,_ his heart pounds out, pumping him full of adrenaline.

 _I’m going to do it,_ it tells him. _I finally chose which I’m going to do when I see him again._

But he reaches the edge of his circle of friends, and he’s so jittery with nerves that he almost can’t believe it. “Where’s Cas?” he asks.

He’s met with a look of confusion. Sam and Eileen turn in their embrace to look at him as well, as if just remembering he’s there.

Dean calls out louder, over the crowd. “Hey, anyone see an angel around?” he asks. “Trench coat? Sensible shoes? About…” he pauses, holding his hand up near his eyes. “About this tall…”

He’s not here.

Sam seems to realize it at the same time that Dean does. He’s taller, anyway, he can see clear as day that Castiel is not among the bunker’s present company.

Dean deflates, all the fight and courage leaving his body at once. Sam says something briefly to Eileen, squeezes her shoulders, and then makes his way to his brother. People start to disperse a little now that the euphoria of the reunion is beginning to ebb.

But there’s no reunion for him.

Sam reaches him and all Dean can say is, “I don’t get it.” He shakes his head and, in a tone more heartbroken than he’s comfortable admitting to, adds, “He said ‘everyone.’”

Sam’s face crumbles, and all he can think to do is to reach out and squeeze Dean’s shoulder. He’s got his puppy dog eyes on, the kind that Dean’s seen him use on old widows and scared children when they go hunting. The kind of eyes that say, _I’m sorry to have to tell you this…_

“Well, maybe he’s… I don’t know,” Sam suggests kindly. “On his way.”

Dean sighs. He puts on a brave face. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Right.”

Sam’s frown deepens, and he squeezes again. “You ok?”

“Yeah,” Dean assures him. The word comes out choked and not at all convincing. “Yeah, you go on. You got a lady to smooch.”

Sam’s face turns pink, but he does eventually let Dean go. But only for a moment, before he’s wrapping him up in another bear hug.

“I love you, Dean,” Sam whispers. 

In their hole in ground where nothing can hurt them, Dean leans into his brother – his big little brother – and finally allows a tear or two to roll down onto his cheeks.

“Love you, Sammy,” he says.

It’s a happy ending. They get everything they’ve ever wanted and never had growing up: a home that’s safe and permanent, a family they chose and that constantly chooses them back, and a world that makes some kind of sense.

They get everything they ever wanted, except for one thing.

Dean finds himself wanting only the company of the sunset outside as the day winds down, because what a day it’s _been_. Most of the hunters and Apocalypse refugees have decided to spend some time together at the bunker while they can before shipping out to the next job – it’s rare to get everyone together at once like this, and it’s not like they don’t have the space – he can hear the warm and pleasant chatter filtering up from below through the crack he left in the front door. He didn’t want to ruin the party, but he’s not really feeling up to talking at the moment. It’s enough for him to sit with his back against the concrete wall, legs stretched out in front of him, while the sharp pangs of loneliness do their best to finish him off once and for all. He takes a swig from the beer he was handed downstairs, and slowly exhales against the aching in his chest.

 _I was gonna kiss him,_ Dean thinks to himself, despondently. _I really thought I would just…_

He shakes his head at himself and takes a longer drag from his beer. Idiot – of course a total reset would be too good to be true. What’s dead is dead, even Jack can’t change that – Dean _knows_ that.

And Cas, Cas is… well, he’s somewhere that Dean can never reach.

Dean shuts his eyes and tilts his head back, relishing the feeling of cool stone against his skin. It’s doing wonders at fending off this incoming migraine, actually. He lets all the tension out of his shoulders, lost in the murmurs of the life happening downstairs. He realizes, in a moment of temporary bliss, that birdsong has also returned to the world.

He drifts for a while. He can feel his body slowly get colder as the sun descends further in the sky, casting long purple shadows along the ground. He flexes the fingers of his right hand, wrapped around his beer bottle, against the chill. His joints aren’t what they used to be, he thinks, wincing a little as they protest against swelling. 

The birds start to quiet their singing as dusk approaches. Even the sound of voices on the other side of the bunker’s door seem to recede. It’s probably time to get up, he thinks – to stop feeling sorry for himself. He’ll throw himself into his work like he always does and he’ll be, he’ll be, he’ll be fine. He will.

He repeats this to himself as many times as it takes for him to believe it while he gathers the strength to open his eyes again. And mantra aside, nothing could have prepared him for when he does.

Standing right in front of him, not even twelve paces away, is Castiel.

Dean’s heart pounds once, hard, and then seems to stop altogether, completely worn out from the strain. _I’m done,_ it says. _I can’t take any more. Please._

Castiel’s eyes go wide, and he blinks at Dean in return, like he hadn’t been expecting to see him there. “Oh,” he says, sheepish.

Dean slowly gets to his feet, leaving his beer abandoned on the ground. He never once takes his eyes off Castiel, afraid to even blink for fear he’ll disappear.

He doesn’t look any different. Same hair, same coat, same terrible hunched posture. There is, however, one glaring difference between this Castiel and the Castiel that Dean last saw in the bunker:

This Castiel carries a scythe.

Dean gapes. “Cas?” he asks.

Once Dean says his name, Castiel melts into a smile. “Hello, Dean.”

Dean could weep. He feels like his knees are going to buckle. He’s completely caught off guard and all of the adrenaline that he had back in the bunker has abandoned him, left him to flounder here uncomfortably in the dark. “You’re – are you… you?”

Castiel nods. “Yes, I’m me,” he promises, and Dean swears he’s never heard a more beautiful sound in all his life. Castiel flexes his hand, the one wrapped around the base of his weapon. 

“With some adjustments,” he amends.

The scythe looks nothing like Billie’s. It’s sleek and sharp, as if someone had taken an angel blade and stretched it out to an impossible length. The blade itself is dangerously thin. It’s downright elegant, and perfectly matches the pale ring on Castiel’s right hand. 

Dean stares. “Death?” he asks. He feels like all the breath has been punched out of his lungs. He’s amazed he’s still upright, frozen to the spot where he stands.

“Yes,” Castiel replies. He doesn’t elaborate.

“How the fuck did that happen?”

Castiel shrugs. “Well… I’m not quite sure myself. After the Empty pulled me into the abyss, Billie followed. We got… tangled, sort of,” he explains. “Stuck together.”

Dean frowns. 

“I’m alright,” Castiel assures him. “Billie’s condition worsened, even in the Empty. I think it was happy to watch her suffer. She took a very long time to finally waste away.”

“Good,” manages Dean.

Castiel shakes his head. “I… well, I stayed with her for a while. It kept me away from the other things,” he says, and Dean wonders exactly what he means by this. He doesn’t get the chance to ask before a gentle smile breaks out across Castiel’s face. “And then Jack appeared.”

Dean is able to muster up a smile for this, too. “You see what he is now?”

“Oh,” Castiel sighs. “He’s glorious. Glowing.”

Dean smiles wider. “That’s our boy.”

Castiel’s eyes soften. “He is.”

They just look at each other for a long moment, drinking each other in, before Castiel speaks again. 

“Billie’s nothing if not strict with the rules. ‘Kill one incarnation of Death – ’”

“‘The next Reaper to die takes his place,’” Dean recites, recalling Billie’s words from all those years ago. “But… but you’re not – ”

Castiel’s smile turns wry. “Reapers are just another kind of angel,” he says. “And Jack, well… he made a pretty convincing argument.”

Castiel uncurls his hand from his scythe and takes a few steps towards Dean. The scythe stays right where it’s left, upright and shining from the inside out with moonlight. He walks slowly, as if in leisure, but Dean can see the faint hesitation in that first step he takes and knows it right away to be something else entirely. Instead of meeting his eyes for most of the journey, he talks.

“I was the first angel in millennia to resurrect a soul from Hell,” Castiel explains. “When I raised you from perdition, Dean, that made me a courier.” 

He shrugs. “At least, that’s how it was explained to me.”

Dean narrows his eyes, trying to understand. “So when you and Billie passed into the Empty at the same time – ” 

“I became the first Reaper to die after Death,” Castiel finishes. “Making me – ”

“Next in line,” Dean concludes. “Holy shit.”

Castiel smiles. “I don’t think all this is exactly kosher, but Jack wanted someone he could trust to look after things once Billie decayed. He wants someone to guide the next generation of Reapers, to make them understand how precious human life really is.”

Dean feels himself growing quite warm, despite the chill in the air. “Well, you’re definitely the best guy for the job.”

Castiel looks down, hiding his smile. He holds his hands out to his sides and then drops them against his thighs. “I’m trying to be.”

Dean hums in consideration, warm all over. “You know, this might put a real damper on our relationship.”

Castiel’s head snaps up. “What do you mean?”

Dean laughs. “I’m ‘death defiant,’ remember? ‘Rule breaking.’ ‘Everything I live to set right, to put down, to tame.’ I am ‘human disorder incarnate,’” Dean repeats. His eyebrows furrow together. “Honestly, the last version of Death didn’t like me so much either. Called me ‘insignificant.’”

“Did you hear a single wordI said?”

Dean blinks, taken aback. Castiel’s tone is suddenly firm, harsh, little of his former sweetness remaining. Dean’s heart has revived itself by now and is tentatively looking ahead to this conversation’s inevitable conclusion: _Oh, shit,_ it says. _We’re going there._

Castiel’s eyes blaze bright in the setting sun, and Dean is relieved to find that they are the same familiar shade of blue. “I meant every word I said down there that day,” he says. “You exist for love, Dean. You are caring and selfless and everything else, and I really did learn to care about the whole world because of you.”

Dean’s breath hitches. “Cas – ”

“Every incarnation of Death has had a soft spot for you,” he says. “I can feel it every time I touch the scythe. I know it as well as I know the sun will rise in the morning.”

Castiel shakes his head, sighs to himself. “I am only fit for this position because of the love you’ve taught me. The truth is that Death waits for no one but you, Dean Winchester. And it is because you are so full of life.”

Dean takes a step forward. “You’ll wait for me?” he asks.

Castiel frowns. “What?”

Dean licks his lips as he gets closer, desperate now, heart hammering in his chest. “You’ll wait for me?” he asks again. 

His right hand shoots out of its own account to twist into Castiel’s coat. The fabric yields so easily under his touch, wrinkling in his grip, as he yanks him forward so that their chests nearly touching. Castiel’s own hand wavers to hover over his, unsure. 

“You’ll wait when I don’t have the words?” Dean asks, voice shaking. “You’ll wait while I get my shit together enough to figure out that I’m actually fucking crazy about you?”

Now Castiel is the one to go breathless. “Dean – ”

“You were the only thing,” Dean whispers, rushing to get it all out before he loses his nerve. “The only thing I really wanted. When it was all over, all I wanted to do was find you again. So I could tell you, so I could…” He trails off.

 _So I could do this,_ he thinks.

Dean leans in, and he kisses Castiel for the very first time.

They fall into it together. Castiel’s hands come up to grasp at Dean’s forearms, Dean grabs onto Castiel’s bicep with his free hand, and they lock each other into their embrace. It has taken them so long to get here, to this point, and now that they’ve finally tripped and stumbled their way into it neither one of them is about to let go.

Castiel might be a Primordial Entity now, but Dean is still very much a human. They part with a gasp, and Castiel’s eyes light up when they open again. Dean’s never seen such an open expression of joy or disbelief on his face before. The sight this close makes him absolutely giddy, makes him want to start laughing and never stop again.

Instead of doing that, he presses his forehead to Castiel’s.

“You were right,” Dean tells him. “Happiness, happiness is just in the saying it, man. It’s about the living, not having. And for so long, for _so long_ I’ve felt like I haven’t been living the life I really wanted. Probably since I was four years old.”

Tears are collecting in earnest now along the edges of Castiel’s eyes, and they threaten to spill over any second. “What are you saying?” he asks.

“I’m saying…” Dean says, fidgeting. Castiel tightens his hold on Dean’s arms, steadying him. And that reassurance, the same steadiness that has become one of his only constants in the last ten years, is all that Dean needs to look into Castiel’s eyes and say, “I’m saying that I love you too, Castiel.”

A tiny noise escapes Castiel’s mouth then, right before it closes over Dean’s for the second time. They are both, at this point, powerless to stop their tears from flowing.

And through it all, Dean can’t stop smiling.

“I will eventually have to leave you again,” Castiel says, after a time.

Dean hums. From where his head is resting on Castiel’s shoulder, the sound travels all the way through his arm down to his elbow; Castiel can feel the hearty thrum of it. 

“When,” he says, more than asks.

Castiel stretches out his legs where they rest on the ground. The concrete of the bunker is cold on his back. The sun has very nearly set all the way now, and he’s reluctant to miss its final moments. 

“In a while,” he says. “I have responsibilities now, bigger than the two of us.”

Dean nods. He straightens up a little so that he’s no longer resting his head on Castiel’s shoulder, and Castiel privately mourns the loss. He does, however, remain pressed along Castiel’s side from shoulder to hip.

“I get it,” Dean sighs. “I’m just your side piece.”

Castiel laughs quietly. “No – ”

“No, no, really. That’s cool, that’s fine. Only waited ten years for this, whatever.”

Castiel taps his foot against Dean’s. “You are my first choice. Forever and always.”

Dean turns to look at him. “Yeah?”

Castiel nods. “Yes. I would _always_ choose to be by your side.”

Dean smiles, tucking his chin down to his chest in the hopes that Castiel won’t see it. (He does.) “Well, I guess somebody’s gotta keep an eye on Jack, right?”

Castiel answers Dean’s smile with one of his own. “I don’t think he’s going to need us checking in so much anymore.”

“You’re probably right.”

“I usually am.”

“Horse shit,” Dean coughs. 

Castiel shoves him, Dean shoves him back. The clouds bleed purple across the darkening sky.

“But who’s going to keep an eye on you?” Dean asks then. “You can barely remember to tie your damn shoelaces without someone reminding you.”

Castiel swivels his head to look at Dean. “You can drop in whenever you'd like,” he says.

Dean turns to look at him, too. “Really?”

Castiel nods. “You’ve still got the Black Key, yes? My door is always open to you, Dean.”

Dean scoffs. “That’s what she said,” he replies, but it sounds feeble even to his ears. Castiel smiles patiently at him and spares Dean the pressure of eye contact, turning his head away again.

But Dean still has one more question. “Hey, Cas?”

“Yes, Dean.”

Dean chews on the inside of his cheek. “When I die, you know, for real... are you going to be the one to reap me?”

Castiel nods. “Absolutely. You and Sam both. No one else is qualified to reap your souls.”

Dean sighs a breath of relief. “Ok. That doesn’t sound so bad.”

Castiel sits up a little straighter. “Hold out your hand,” he commands.

Confused, Dean sits up. He holds out the hand closest to Castiel in the position they’re sitting: his left. Castiel raises his right, and begins to fiddle.

“This is my promise to you. It ties me to the task of guiding you into the afterlife when the time comes, and to return to you in every free moment before then.”

He drops his new white ring into Dean’s waiting hand.

Dean shakes his head. “Cas, I can’t take this, it’s part of the uniform – ”

“I want you to hold it for me,” he says. “I want you to keep a part of me here while I’m gone, so that you remember that you are loved. That a love for you is now woven into the very fabric of time itself.”

“That’s not really fair,” Dean says, voice sounding very thin all of a sudden. “I don’t have one for you.”

Castiel grins. He doesn’t make a big deal about Dean placing the ring on his fourth finger. “We have plenty of time,” he assures him.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees. “Forever, you said.”

“And I meant it.”

As they lean in for the last time, the last remaining light of the day finally dips below the horizon, and the sun sets on this final part of the story.

And though this story ends here, it will still – in the hearts of people that believe in love – carry on.

**Author's Note:**

> Come visit me on [tumblr.](https://ozonecologne.tumblr.com/)


End file.
